Sleep softly ... eagle forgotten ... under the stone. Time has its way with you there, and the clay has its own. "We have buried him now," thought your foes, and in secret rejoiced. They made a brave show of their mourning, their hatred unvoiced. They had snarled at you, barked at you, foamed at you, day after day, Now you were ended. They praised you ... and laid you away. The others, that mourned you in silence and terror and truth, The widow bereft of her crust, and the boy without youth, The mocked and the scorned and the wounded, the lame and the poor, That should have remembered forever ... remember no more. Where are those lovers of yours, on what name do they call, The lost, that in armies wept over your funeral pall? They call on the names of a hundred high-valiant ones, A hundred white eagles have risen, the sons of your sons. The zeal in their wings is a zeal that your dreaming began, The valor that wore out your soul in the service of man. Sleep softly ... eagle forgotten ... under the stone. Time has its way with you there, and the clay has its own. Sleep on, O brave-hearted, O wise man that kindled the flame-- To live in mankind is far more than to live in a name, To live in mankind, far, far more ... than to live in a name. Immortality (_From the Will of Francisco Ferrer_) (Spanish educator and radical, 1859-1909, executed after the Barcelona riots by a plot of his clerical enemies) I also wish my friends to speak little or not at all about me, because idols are created when men are praised, and this is very bad for the future of the human race. Acts alone, no matter by whom committed, ought to be studied, praised, or blamed. Let them be praised in order that they may be imitated when they seem to contribute to the common weal; let them be censured when they are regarded as injurious to the general well-being, so that they may not to be repeated. I desire that on no occasion, whether near or remote, nor for any reason whatsoever, shall demonstrations of a political or religious character be made before my remains, as I consider the time devoted to the dead would be better employed in improving the condition of the living, most of whom stand in great need of this. Light Upon Waldheim BY VOLTAIRINE DE CLEYRE (American anarchist writer, 1866-1912. Waldheim is a cemetery in Chicago, where the executed Anarchists were buried. Upon the monument is the figure of a woman holding a dying man upon her knees, with one hand pressing a crown upon his forehead, and with the other drawing a dagger) Light upon Waldheim! And the earth is gray; A bitter wind is driving from the north; The stone is cold, and strange cold whispers say: "What do ye here with Death? Go forth! Go forth!"